He bent and looked at the hand lying within his own--the little hand with its fresh fragrant palm upturned and the white fingers relaxed, drooping inward above it--at the delicate bluish vein in the smooth wrist. Then he released the hand, untouched by his lips; and she withdrew it and closed the door; and he heard her laugh softly, and lean against it, whispering: "Now that I am safely locked in--I merely wish to say that--in the old days--a lady's hand was sometimes--kissed. . . . Oh, but you are too late, my poor friend! I can't come out; and I wouldn't if I could--not after what I dared to say to you. . . . In fact, I shall probably remain locked up here for days and days. . . . Besides, what I said is out of fashion--has no significance nowadays--or, perhaps, too much. . . . No, I won't dress and come out--even for you. _Je me deshabille--je fais ma toilette de nuit, monsieur--et je vais maintenant m'agenouiller et faire ma priere. Donc--bon soir--et bonne nuit_--" And, too low for him to hear even the faintest breathing whisper of her voice--"Good-night. I love you with all my heart--with all my heart--in my own fashion." * * * * * He had been asleep an hour, perhaps more, when something awakened him, and he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, dawn already whitening his windows. Somebody was knocking. He swung out of bed, stepped into his bath-slippers, and, passing swiftly to the door, opened it. Gerald stood there, fully dressed. "I'm going to town on the early train," began the boy--"I thought I'd tell you--" "Nonsense! Gerald, go back to bed!" "I can't sleep, Philip--" "Can't sleep? Oh, that's the trouble, is it? Well, then, sit here and talk to me." He gave a mighty yawn--"I'm not sleepy, either; I can go days without it. Here!--here's a comfortable chair to sprawl in. . . . It's daylight already; doesn't the morning air smell sweet? I've a jug of milk and some grapes and peaches in my ice-cupboard if you feel inclined. No? All right; stretch out, sight for a thousand yards, and fire at will." Gerald strove to smile; for a while he lay loosely in the arm-chair, his listless eyes intent on the strange, dim light which fell across the waste of sea fog. Only the water along the shore's edge remained visible; all else was a blank wall behind which, stretching to the horizon, lay the unseen ocean. Already a few restless gulls were on the wing, sheering inland; and their raucous, treble cries accented the pallid stillness. But the dawn was no paler than the boy's face--no more desolate. Trouble was his, the same old trouble that has dogged the trail of folly since time began; and Selwyn knew it and waited. At last the boy broke out: "This is a cowardly trick--this slinking in to you with all my troubles after what you've done for me--after the rotten way I've treated you--"